t day, they were viewed by Mr.
Faringfield rather with commendation than otherwise, and so were
allowed to continue. My mother thought it a sin that no one interfered
to prevent the boy's injuring his health; but when she said this to
Phil himself, he only smiled and answered that if his reading did cost
him anything of health, 'twas only fair a man should pay something for
his pleasures.

My mother's interest in the matter arose from a real liking. She saw
much of Philip, for he and the three younger Faringfields were as
often about our house as about their own. Ours was not nearly as fine;
'twas a white-painted wooden house, like those in New England, but
roomy enough for its three only occupants, my mother and me and the
maid. We were not rich, but neither were we of the poorest. My father,
the predecessor of Mr. Aitken in the customs office, had left
sufficient money in the English funds at his death, to keep us in the
decent circumstances we enjoyed, and there was yet a special fund
reserved for my education. So we could be neighbourly with the
Faringfields, and were so; and so all of us children, including
Philip, were as much at home in the one house as in the other.

One day, in the Fall of that year of Philip's arrival, we young ones
were playing puss-in-a-corner in the large garden--half orchard, half
vegetable plantation--that formed the rear of the Faringfields'
grounds. It was after Phil's working hours, and a pleasant, cool,
windy evening. The maple leaves were yellowing, the oak leaves turning
red. I remember how the wind moved the apple-tree boughs, and the
yellow corn-stalks waiting to be cut and stacked as fodder. (When I
speak of corn, I do not use the word in the English sense, of grain in
general, but in the American sense, meaning maize, of which there are
two kinds, the sweet kind being most delicious to eat, as either kind
is a beautiful sight when standing in the field, the tall stalks
waving their many arms in the breeze.) We were all laughing, and
running from tree to tree, when in from the front garden came Ned, his
face wearing its familiar cruel, bullying, spoil-sport smile.

The wind blowing out Madge's brown hair as she ran, I suppose put him
in mind of what to do. For all at once, clapping his hand to his
mouth, and imitating the bellowing war-whoop of an Indian, he rushed
upon us in that character, caught hold of Madge's hair, and made off
as if to drag her away by it. She, screaming